


Renovations

by Vicxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 04:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15089153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicxx/pseuds/Vicxx
Summary: Blind dating has always been an awkward disaster-add in a slightly depressed recluse Harry, and an alcoholic, anxiety ridden Draco, and it turns into an opportunity.





	1. Chapter 1

#  _Amor Caecus Est_

#  _Find your TRUE love today!_

#  _Simply fill out this form, owl the return address, and our matchmakers will find your match!_

Harry blinked at the garish advert, before shooting a look to Hermione, “You’re kidding, right?”  
Hermione looked all too serious for a form like this, sitting on the opposite side of the wobbly table of Grimmauld Place’s kitchen, the beginnings of laugh lines appearing near her eyes, and her curls tinged a slight grey at the roots. She tapped her fingers on the grimy table almost impatiently, her engagement ring reflecting the muted light from the filthy windows.  
“Harry…” she sighed, running a hand through her hair, looking older than she should for a moment, “When was the last time you saw someone that wasn’t Ron or me? Or left this house, for that matter?”  
“Hey, I saw…” the time it took Harry to think of someone he’s seen spoke more than he did, “...Luna! Yeah, I saw Luna only a couple of-”  
“A couple of months ago, Harry. You saw her when we held our anniversary party here,” Hermione cut him off, giving him a look that verged on pity, “Harry, you have locked yourself in this...mausoleum, for the past four years. Have you even cleaned this place? Or reached out to Kreacher at all?”  
Harry winced-Kreacher had been sent to tend to Hogwarts immediately following the war, due to the dramatic drop in elf population. Since then, the house had sort of...sat. His facial expression must’ve answered her question, however, because Hermione huffed, gesturing to the form, “It doesn’t have to lead to anything serious, but it would do you good to at least see people, and get out of this house.”  
With that, she whipped out another of the many flat adverts she had not-so-subtly dropped on the table in the previous months, this one complete with dog-eared pages of places Hermione had likely scouted herself.  
“Hermione, I told you no about the flats,” Harry would not leave this house-it was all he had left of the family he should’ve had, he wasn’t giving it up.  
“You don’t have to sell Grimmauld, or give it to the Ministry to make a memorial out of it. But living in this is sucking the life out of you,” Hermione huffed, obviously giving up on that line of conversation for the moment, “Look, I know you don’t necessarily like socialising, but humans need contact-and not just a couple of friends, before you pull that, humans need intimacy.” the look on Hermione’s face practically dared Harry to challenge her, so he wisely kept silent. She continued, “Even if all you do is go on one date, maybe go to a little muggle place even, and you’re out for all of an hour, it’s good for you to at least interact with people, and get some air that isn’t musty and old.”  
A chime sounded from Hermione’s pocket, and she sighed, aggravated at the abrupt interruption, “That’ll be the Ministry. I have to get back to work. Just...think about it, okay?” with that, Hermione pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s temple, before walking briskly out of the kitchen. The floo flared a few moments later, and Harry was alone.  
Harry dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, agitation and guilt moving through him. He shouldn’t do this to his friends-pulling them from their lives and their jobs like a child needing monitoring. He was an adult, and…  
And he had no idea what the hell he was doing.  
Harry glared at the obnoxious form in front of him, it’s cursive letters mocking him, it’s pristine condition highlighting the sheer disrepair of the house. With a grunt, Harry brandished his wand and cast a scourgify at the table-some dust shifted, but nothing really changed.  
“Oh, bollocks,” Harry snatched up the form, summoned a self inking quill, and opened up the stupid survey.  
_‘Name’_ Harry scribbled out his name-to hell with pretense at this point, if Skeeter got ahold of this story, lying about his identity would only make it worse.  
_‘Age;_ 22’ _‘Birthday:_ July 31st’ _‘Gender;_ Male’  
_‘Looking for Male or Female’_ Harry paused, caught slightly off guard by the question. He had come to terms with his bisexuality after a frankly enlightening night with Seamus during their 8th year of Hogwarts, but...he hadn’t really mentioned it. To anyone. Should he just put girls? He thought back over his previous relationships. Ginny...that had raged for all of three months, and then the war was well and truly underway; afterwards...nothing was left. Cho-there wasn’t a real relationship there, simply one botched date and one awkward kiss. Neither of them left him feeling particularly one way or the other.  
With a quiet curse, Harry continued filling out the stupid form, mind made up.  
_‘Looking for Male or Female:_ Male’ _‘Eye Colour:_ Green’ _‘Hair Colour:_ Black’ _‘Height:_ 1.7 metres’ _‘Interested in BDSM’_ -  
Wait, what? Harry looked at the question again. BDSM…? Considering Harry wasn’t entirely sure what that was, he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer the question.  
_‘Interested in BDSM:_ no idea’ _‘Tattoos:_ none’ _‘Interested in Marriage:_ Maybe’ _‘Interested in Children:_ yes’ …  
Harry glanced down at the rest of the seemingly never ending parchment-the questions seemed to continue on for ages. How deep a profile was this company building?  
_‘Are you employed, or are you seeking employment:_ no, no’ _‘Favourite Colour;_ Blue’ _‘Ideal Date;_ Quiet, casual, fun’ _‘What kind of relationship are you looking for;_ whatever comes’ _‘What do you look for in a person’_ -  
Harry paused, and thought back on his previous relationships, proper and passing. Why did he like them? And, more importantly, why did he stop?  
_‘What do you look for in a person;_ some unafraid to challenge me, but not someone who argues for the sake of it. Someone who has a sense of humour, but knows when to be serious. Taller’  
Harry sighed, having finally reached the end of the survey. He sealed the envelope, and gave it a hard look after he addressed it. Did he want to do this? He could still back out…  
The stressed, pitied look on Hermione’s face came to the forefront, and before he could back out he went to his floo and called out the address, flooing the letter off-he refused to have another owl.  
The green fire died down, and Harry wanted to chase the letter-this could be a very bad idea.


	2. Chapter 2

#  _Amor Caecus Est_

#  _Find your TRUE love today!_

#  _Simply fill out this form, owl the return address, and our matchmakers will find your match!_

Draco glared at the offensively bright parchment with such contempt that it actually began smoking, “What the fuck, Pans?”  
One thing Draco hadn’t expected upon stumbling out of his loo for hangover cure was Pansy Parkinson, blocking his way with a wand in one hand and this...thing in the other.   
“You have slept with more men than attended Hogwarts in the last decade, Draco,” Pansy accused, her voice piercing his brain and making him wince, “And not just wizards, but muggles too! You know, I did some reading, and did you have any idea about the viciousness of muggle STDs? Or the kidnapping rates? Do you know how many pretty little boys have been scalped whilst cavorting about?”   
Draco did, in fact, know about muggle STDs-thus the boxes of rubbers under his sink; that was beside the point, Pansy wouldn’t care-this wasn’t the point of her visit, “Pans, just tell me what the fuck you want and give me a potion.”  
Pansy sneered, baring her polished white teeth, “Why you seem to think this is in any way healthy is beyond me, Draco Malfoy. It has been four _years_ since you were pardoned-when was the last time you saw your mother? Or checked on your finances? Or did anything other than drink and shag pretty muggle boys!?” her voice had risen in volume, and Draco had to clutch the counter as his head pulsed-her shouting almost drowned out the small crash in his bedroom.  
Bollocks. Speaking of muggle boys…  
Pansy heard it, because her head snapped to face the door, her lips pressed into a thin line as she swiftly stowed her wand in her sleeve, “Draco, that better not be another one night stand.”  
Before Draco could do anything, however, said one night stand-a pretty thing, if a bit brutish-stumbled into the lounge, stopping when he saw Draco and Pansy.  
“Hey you, wondered where you’d…” he trailed off, seemingly still somewhat drunk, as he noticed Pansy properly, “ ‘hos the bird?”  
Draco saw the bomb about to go off, and swiftly brandished his wand, “ _Accio_ hangover potion” it sailed into Draco’s hand, and he gulped it down to the sound of Pansy’s indignant shout, before stomping over to the one night stand and placing his wand at the man’s temple, mind much clearer, “ _Obliviate_.”  
His eyes went glassy, and his face fell slack, and Draco spoke quickly and quietly, “You spent the night at my flat, we had fantastic sex, and you left before I woke up the next morning. You didn’t see any women here, or anything out of the ordinary.” Draco lifted his wand and quickly dressed him-magic, awfully convenient-and sent him on his way before he came to.  
The door closed and locked, and silence descended on the flat.  
For a second.  
“Draco. Abraxas. Malfoy,” Pansy stalked up to him, delivering a swift smack to the head, “You just used _magic!_ On a _muggle!_ ”  
“I’m aware, dearest,” All the hangover potion in the world wouldn’t dissolve Draco’s headache now, and he simply walked into the kitchen and flicked on the switch for the kettle, before pulling out a tea cup and a bottle of brandy.  
“ _Accio_ brandy,” Pansy swiped the bottle, and before Draco could react, she vanished it with a flick of her wand.  
“Bloody hell Pansy-.”  
“Draco!” She could put howlers out of business with the sheer volume of her shout, which startled Draco so bad he dropped his mug, causing it to shatter on the tile at his feet. His heart pounded and his hands shook as he remembered-.  
He felt the cut of the ceramic into his knees, and realised he had gone down, staring at his shaking hands, brain moving all too quickly as Pansy quickly came over and helped him up, guiding him to his dining table and depositing him. She swiped at his face gently, wiping away tears Draco hadn’t realised were falling.  
“Breathe, darling, breathe,” Pansy held his hands, massaging the pulse points at his wrists, until his breathing calmed down, and two cups of steaming tea were steeping on the table.  
“Draco, you’re not well, dear,” Pansy ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it out as he focused on breathing, “I know you don’t see it, or you choose not to, but...isolating yourself just makes it worse. You’ve sworn up and down you won’t see a mind healer…” Pansy grabbed the form again, smoothing it’s singed edges, “At the very least, you wouldn’t have to hide who you are with this. Even if it only works once, and you never do it again-change can be a breath of fresh air.”   
Draco thought on this, staring at the form, his heart finally returning to a normal rhythm, and finally nodded. “If this goes wrong, Pansy-.”  
“I’ll take you shopping in the nicest shops, Paris and London.” Pansy kissed his forehead, and revealed a self inking quill from her pocket, setting it on the table.   
She got up and went into the kitchen, presumably to clean up Draco’s mess and destroy his alcohol-every time she came by, his alcohol mysteriously disappeared-whilst Draco placed the form on the table, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he picked up the quill.  
‘ _Name;_ Draco Malfoy’ ‘ _Age;_ 23’ ‘ _Birthday;_ June 5th’ ‘ _Gender;_ Male’ ‘ _Looking for Male or Female;_ Male’. Draco smirked-he had worked out his sexuality long before the war.  
‘ _Eye Colour;_ Grey’ ‘ _Hair Colour;_ Blonde’ ‘ _Height;_ 1.8 metres’ ‘ _Interested in BDSM;_ sometimes’. Draco thought back to the one guy who had carried and a pair of cuffs with him everywhere, and shuddered faintly. He was definitely not the submissive type.   
‘ _Tattoos;_ three’ ‘ _Interested in Marriage;_ not particularly’ ‘ _Interested in Children;_ highly unlikely’ ‘ _Are you employed or seeking employment;_ no, possibly’ ‘ _Favourite colour;_ green’ ‘ _Ideal Date;_ ’. Draco paused-when was the last time he had gone on a date?  
“With me, dear. Before the war,” Pansy startled him, and Draco realised he had spoken his last question out loud, and ducked his head.  
“You like romance, you ponce,” she ruffled his hair, much to his chagrin, but he sighed and hunkered down to finish the stupid form.  
‘ _Ideal Date;_ no posturing, no formality-fun’ ‘ _What kind of relationship are you looking for;_ not a shitty one’ ‘ _What do you look for in a person_ ’-  
Draco pursed his lips, thinking back on all the blokes he’s brought home, what they had in common, and smirked.  
 _‘What do you look for in a person;_ someone with no expectations, funny, and shorter. Ideally with green eyes’. That was an easy resemblance to pick out from his...to be frank, from his fuckbuddies.  
Draco set down the quill, and Pansy quickly took the form, sealing it in an envelope with a smile, “I promise, love, this will work out.”  
With that, she apparated out, and Draco was alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_Coffee at Prufrock, 23-25 Leather Ln. London EC1N 7TE, UK. Muggle. 4pm, Thursday. Look for a royal blue scarf-say our name to verify!_

Harry tapped his fingers nervously, glancing at his watch-3:50. He had ten minutes, and had been sitting there for 40. His coffee cup had long since been emptied, and the caffeine now fueled the jittery feeling in his stomach. He had a spiral notebook in front of him-one of Hermione’s not so subtle pamphlets had mentioned that a way to “reinvigorate” one’s life was to take on a project. Harry thought if might be a fun side project to fix up Grimmauld place-at the very least, Hermione might leave him the hell alone about moving if he showed effort to make the house nice. All he had written down, however, was the word “ideas” and the word “materials”...not the greatest start.  
The bell at the front of the shop chimed, and his head jerked up as he adjusted the green scarf around his neck self consciously-the idea of not knowing who was supposed to meet left him severely unsettled.  
He was floored, however, when _Draco sodding Malfoy_ strode into the shop. His hair had grown a touch longer since the trials, and he wore a dark grey waistcoat and black trousers-along with an expensive looking blue scarf. Harry watched, like a deer in headlights, as Malfoy scanned the shop, braced for the moment he was spotted.  
Malfoy went still, his eyes widening comically for a moment, before narrowing to slits, and he quickly scanned the windows, and the shop again, before he stomped over, practically emanating hostility.  
“What the bloody hell are you doing here,” It was meant to be a question, presumably, but Malfoy’s hissed snarl made it sound anything but.  
Harry, for lack of a better response, weakly gestured at the scarf, which Malfoy seemed to be noticing for the first time.  
He paled, eyes on the fabric for a moment, before he turned and stormed right back out the door with another chime of the bell. His histrionics had drawn the attention of some of the other patrons, one woman who gave Harry a pitying look before returning to her reading.  
Shame and disappointment curled in Harry’s stomach as he took his notebook and left, finding a good alley to apparate home. This whole idea was hopeless, just like the rest of Harry’s life so far.  
Hermione startled from her place on Harry’s lumpy couch at the sound of Harry’s arrival, and stood immediately, “It’s only been a few minutes since your date-are you alright?”  
Harry opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again, simply walking into his kitchen and putting on the kettle, pulling out a mug and milk. Hermione followed just as quietly, watching Harry while he paced, waiting out the silence until he would inevitably explode with whatever had happened.  
He didn’t last long, “This whole thing-Hermione, fucking _Malfoy_ showed up in that shop today. It was doomed from the second you handed me that stupid parchment.” Harry had ripped off his coat, and the scarf-which he impulsively _incendio_ ’d.   
“Did you talk to him?” Hermione asked, setting her own mug beside Harry’s while summoning the sugar from his cabinet.  
“Did I-no.” Harry huffed a sarcastic laugh, “He looked at me like I had set him up on purpose, got into a strop, and left-I didn’t get a word in,” Harry shoved a cabinet closed with a little too much force, and the door came off, startling him as it fell to the floor.   
Harry stared at the rotting wood on the equally dismal floor, feeling a momentary kinship with the status of the house. Falling apart and decrepit.  
Hermione’s hand on his arm brought him back to the present.  
“Just because you had one botched date doesn’t mean the who idea is doomed,” Hermione spoke softly, and that got to Harry-that debacle with Malfoy was supposed to have been a _date_.  
“I-yeah, I guess,” Harry mumbled, and Hermione smiled, twirling her wand to finish off the tea, whilst summoning another garishly coloured parchment.  
Harry filled it out almost mechanically, until he reached the final question, _‘What do you look for in a person’_. At this, he paused, and thought on it-what would make sure he got an actual date?  
 _‘What do you look for in a person;_ Sense of humour, the willpower to actually try, taller.’  
Harry sighed-basically Malfoy if he grew a pair.  
Harry shoved the form away, glaring at it as Hermione took it, and quietly accepted the mug of tea.  
“It’ll work out, Harry,” Hermione smiled, before she gestured to the spiral, “Now, what are you planning?”  
Harry pulled the spiral towards, the page still a bit desolate, “I was thinking of maybe fixing up Grimmauld,” he muttered, gauging Hermione’s reaction. Her eyebrows rose, eyes calculating, before she wiped her face and smiled.  
“That’s a good idea Harry. Cleaning can be good for thinking, and productivity can help you feel accomplished, lift your mood and all,” Hermione was quite probably quoting one of the pamphlets, but Harry appreciated the effort.  
“I just don’t know where to start,” Harry looked pointedly around the decaying kitchen, with grime encrusted windows and rotting wood...everything.  
“Well, maybe clean?” Hermione suggested, “Who knows, maybe under all the dirt there’s something worth salvaging,” she took the self inking quill and scribbled something on his materials list-soap, sponges, towels.  
Harry nodded, that was actually not a bad idea, “If I clean up the windows, then I can at least see better.”  
Hermione smiled, this one entirely genuine, “I think it’ll do wonders,” she left off whether those wonders were for the house or for Harry, but Harry didn’t ask.  
A few minutes later, Hermione had gone-it was her date night with Ron-and Harry was alone. He decided to see if the house even had any sponges, or soap. What was originally a few minute hunt became an hour and a half of searching through cabinets, only to come up with a dead mouse, a head full of dust, and a sponge that looked fossilised.  
So he possibly had quite a bit of work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Pansy found Draco at the liquor store down the street from his flat, with a bottle of whiskey and a cheap cup.  
“Draco!” She stomped up to, smacking the glass out of his hand-which then promptly shattered on the pavement at his feet.  
“What the fuck, Pans?” Draco slurred some, and the sloshing liquid in the bottle revealed that he had already drunk roughly half of it.   
Pansy shot a quick glance around the area, checking for muggles, before getting an iron grip on him and side-alonging him back to his flat.  
“Pansy!” Draco stumbled, dropping his bottle, which shattered on the wood floors, the stench of whiskey swifting permeating the air.  
Draco hadn’t returned to his flat, or to Pansy’s, after that...disaster at the coffee shop. He wanted comfort.  
So he went to get drunk.  
“What. happened.” Pansy snapped, swiftly vanishing the mess on the floor and summoning a glass of water, shoving it at him.  
“If I went to get drunk, it obviously wasn’t good,” Draco tried for snide, but he slurred the words a little too much, and stumbled as he went to sit on his couch.  
Pansy aimed her wand, and before Draco thought to duck, he was hit with a stiff sobering charm, and promptly scrambled into the loo, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet.  
 _“Fuck. You. Pansy,”_ Draco rasped, before another wave of nausea took him and he heaved again.  
Pansy stood in the doorway of the loo, her face a mixture of pity, disappointment, and outrage, “Would you like to tell me why you decided to go get pissed off your arse?”  
Draco sagged against the wall, his stomach finally calming after the magic induced turmoil, “No.”  
“So something _did_ happen,” Pansy smiled, and Draco cursed internally.  
Draco decided instead to go get a water-his having been abandoned when his stomach had revolted. He made it back to the abandoned glass and chugged it, whilst Pansy followed, on a mission for information.  
“Draco, what happened?” She asked, sounding so sincere, and Draco groaned.  
“Fucking _Potter_.”   
Pansy stopped, face going wonky for a moment, before she regained her composure, “And?”  
Draco slanted her a look, “You can probably guess.”  
“Really? I highly doubt you too fucked in the middle of a muggle coffee shop.”  
Draco had been drinking more water, which he now sprayed out of his mouth and nose as he spluttered, _“What?”_  
Pansy smirked, “Come now Draco, he’s not unattractive, and you are most definitely male inclined. In fact, the man you shooed out of here last looked just like-,” her expression shifted, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’.   
_“You’re not over Potter!”_  
Draco reeled from the sheer volume of her shout, his ears ringing just a little.  
“Pansy, what are you on about?” Draco stood, looking at her incredulously, because the gobsmacked expression on her face hadn’t disappeared.  
“Draco, the man you sent out, looked _just_ like Harry Potter. I would bet my Gringotts account that at least half the men you bring home do as well.”  
“So? That means he looks average, what the hell does that have to do with anything?” in truth, Draco’s heart rate started elevating as he rapidly thought over the various men he had brought home-well, those he could remember. Shorter than him, stronger...green eyes…  
Bollocks.  
Pansy must’ve seen the realisation on his face, because she made a sound almost like a squeal, but far too feral, “So that’s why you ran away.”  
“I did not-!” Draco paused, thinking back to what he had done in the shop...maybe he had run away.  
Pansy snickered, summoning another form, “If you’re so set on not facing Potter, try writing something along the lines of ‘not Potter’.”  
She was giggling too much to avoid the stinging hex Draco sent her way.  
Draco filled out the form again, pausing at the line _‘What do you look for in a person’_. He thought hard about all the things he hates about Potter, and what he likes about a man...he was appalled to find that quite a bit of that overlapped.  
 _‘What do you look for in a person;_ Someone who isn’t afraid to chase what they want. Someone funny-and no marks.’  
There, that’ll definitely keep him from getting Potter again, what with that scar and all.  
Pansy snatched the form and read it, a small snicker escaping her as she sent the form out.  
“It’ll be fine, Draco,”  
“You said that last time.”  
He got cuffed for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies my updates have been a bit sporadic. I got unexpectedly busy and haven't had time to really hammer out words lately.


	5. Chapter 5

_Coffee at Monmouth Coffee, 27 Monmouth St, London WC2H 9EU, UK, 3:30 pm, Wednesday. Muggle. Wear an orange pocket square and look for a striped pocket square!_

Harry felt ruddy dumb, in the “casual” suit jacket Hermione had found him, Ron’s chudley cannons pocket square tucked into the front in such a way that only the plain orange was visible. He was sipping his coffee and looking at his spiral, a bag from the market by his leg-he decided to buy the soap and sponges whilst he was out. He had also added a fake little plant, and some muggle spray paint that apparently turned the wall into a chalkboard. He had a cool idea for the kitchen.  
The whistling of the wind alerted Harry to the door opening, and he sighed as he saw Malfoy walk in, wearily acknowledging the navy and white pocket square the man was sporting.  
When Malfoy saw him, his eyes narrowed and he stiffened, before he finally walked over and flopped into the chair across from him, scowling.  
“Well, since I’m apparently stuck with you,” Malfoy flicked a note at him-of muggle money, even, “I want coffee.”  
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then stared for a moment, before deciding to just go with it. He took the note and went up to the counter, ordering the most ridiculous drink on the menu.  
After the coffee had been handed to him-though he highly doubted it was actually coffee, with the amount of additives-he turned to go back to his table, only to see Malfoy looking at his spiral, pen-actual, _muggle_ pen-in hand, scribbling on the page, “Do you mind?” Harry asked, setting his ridiculous drink down a little harder than necessary, and taking his notebook back.  
He looked down to see that Malfoy had in fact actually been slightly helpful, _“Black Property enchantments-kitchen cabinets will set themselves on fire if constructed of wood from the south of Bristol.”_  
Harry looked at Malfoy, who had opened the lid of his drink and was sniffing at it suspiciously, “How do you know I’m renovating a Black property?”  
Malfoy pinned him with a look, “I have a solicitor, and I understand how inheritance works,” he sneered, sipping his drink cautiously. What Harry wasn’t prepared for was the surprised hum he made as his eyes lit up, and what those two things did to him.  
“Stop staring at me,” Malfoy snapped, and Harry felt his cheeks heat as he tore his gaze away, staring at the spiral. He added to his materials list a reminder to get a book on wood types.  
They sat there in a tense, awkward silence, Harry desperating trying to ignore the happy little sounds Malfoy made while drinking his coffee, until the other man finally broke the silence, “What the hell is this, anyway?”  
Harry, having been staring out the window daydreaming, startled at the sound of Malfoy’s voice, “It’s uh, the ridiculous one on the menu with all the syrups,” Harry stuttered, gesturing vaguely to the large board on the shop’s wall.  
Malfoy’s chin jutted out for a moment, and the silence fell again.  
Harry was debating just giving up and leaving, when Malfoy gave a long suffering sigh, “I suppose I should actually talk to you.”  
Harry gave him a look, “You’ve seemed perfectly fine just sitting there,” he said with only a hint of sarcasm, but Malfoy seemed to pick it up anyway.  
“The fact that we got each other twice is just stupid,” Malfoy declared, shifting to look out the window at the muggles passing on the street. Harry hummed in agreement, eyes on the spiral again as he tried to envision what he was going to do to his kitchen-easiest way to get through this awkward situation was to just not think about it.  
Malfoy, apparently having finished his coffee, abruptly stood, “Well, this was awkward. Let’s not do this one again.”  
Before Harry could say anything, he turned and left, leaving Harry awkwardly at his table.


	6. Chapter 6

Draco landed in the middle of his flat, his hands shaking from whatever concoction it was that Potter had ordered, his head spinning slightly— damn him, Potter looked _good_.   
Pansy poked her head through the door to the kitchen, giving Draco a thorough once over for sobriety; once he seemingly met her standards, she spoke, “You were gone longer this time, and you’re not pissed.”  
Draco held up the nearly empty coffee cup in defeat, and Pansy smirked as Draco slouched onto his couch, “Who did you meet?”  
“Ruddy Potter again.”  
Pansy made a noncommittal noise, but the smugness could be felt from Paris, let alone the other side of the room. She perched on the arm of the couch and stroked Draco’s hair comfortingly, “It seems you had a better time.”  
Draco grunted, “He’s renovating a Black property.”  
Pansy hummed again, and when Draco hazarded a glance at her, he could see the gears turning behind her glinting eyes, and shuddered almost involuntarily.  
“I told you you weren’t over him.” she said triumphantly, and Draco shoved at her, glaring through her snickers.  
“There’s another form on your table, love.” Pansy made to get up, but then turned again, “Also, there’s a letter from your mother.”  
Draco’s head shot up at that— mother hadn’t written for a few weeks, miffed with her son’s lack of reply. He’s missed her, but he hasn’t known what to say.  
Grudgingly, he moved to the table, studiously ignoring the garish form in favour of the much more plain envelope, emblazoned with the family crest— the faint aroma of his mother’s perfume still clung to it, and it took more self control than he’d like to admit to keep himself from holding it to his nose.  
Pansy had resumed her task in the kitchen, stocking the cabinets with proper food and scrupulously looking for any hidden stashes. She felt like a house elf, but someone had to do it.  
Draco opened the letter carefully, and slid out the sheet of parchment; not overly long, but not too short either. He immediately scanned her flowery cursive:  
 _Draco,  
I have yet to hear from you in recent weeks, and only the earnest reassurances from Pansy keep me from seeking you out, as I would think you dead. I regret that my first correspondence in such a long time is to be the bearer of bad news:  
Your father has passed.  
I was contacted by the Azkaban guards this morning. Apparently he had managed to get out of his cell, and before the guards could catch him he jumped. They were unable to locate his body, but due the magic suppressant he was on, they are presuming him deceased. I apologise that this is how I must give you this news, but I’m not aware of where you currently live. I will be holding the funeral at the Manor on the first of September— I would like you there.  
Love and Regards,  
N.M._

Draco read the letter through again. Then a third time. The parchment crumpled at the edges from the force of his grip, and he hadn’t realised that he had made noise until Pansy came into his field of vision, eyes wide with concern as she gently pried the letter from his hands. He started forward, seeing nothing but the imprint of those words; _Your father has passed. Your father has passed. Your father has passed._  
Pansy read the letter, a small gasp her only inclination of shock, and he free hand found Draco’s hair, holding him to her side comfortingly as he quietly wept. She bit her lip, looking down at the mourning man beside her— this timing couldn’t be shittier.  
“It’ll be alright, Draco,” Pansy whispered, stroking his hair with one hand and wiping at his cheeks with the other.  
“It’ll be alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got back to some writing


	7. Chapter 7

Harry stared at the moldy, rotten cabinets on the wall, holding his wand in one hand, and a sledgehammer in the other...with a smirk, he put his wand in his waistband, hefting the sledgehammer as he advanced on the wall. He raised it over his head, and with a grunt, brought it down, satisfaction pooling in his gut as the hammer ripped through the rotten wood, and wrenched portions from the wall, the cacophony echoing through the room as it crashed to the floor. The _snap_ of broken enchantment danced through the house— Kreacher would have to enchant the new ones to connect to the pantry, or wherever it was that the house hid its things.   
Harry vanished the mess on the floor, and after a few more swings of the sledgehammer, the cabinetry had been detached the wall, leaving it dreary and blank, with only a slightly difference in colour where the cabinets had sat for the previous decades. Harry sighed; demolition was relaxing.  
He debated sparing the ancient marble countertops, to detach them before attacking the rest of the rotten wood, but upon lifting the first one he found a colony of roaches, and after definitely _not_ screaming like a little girl, he impulsively vanished the lot of it, until the sink and piping were all that was left standing against the wall.  
The dreary, filthy wall….  
Harry experimentally cast _scourgify_ at it, yelping as the spell came pelting back, violently scouring the floor. Okay, muggle way it is then. Harry had prepared, not knowing what he would need, and after a _long_ trip to the market, he had enough cleaning supply to survive an apocalypse— wood scrub, industrial soap, bulk packages of sponges in various sizes, a wrench, a hammer, his sledgehammer, enough wash rags to create a tent, and numerous other oddly specific items that he picked up out of paranoia.   
He took the wood scrub to the wall, and abruptly realised that there was _wallpaper_ on it. Knowing the horror stories of what could grow under it, Harry performed a bubblehead charm before using a butcher knife to cut a long horizontal line through the paper, and a couple of vertical slices.  
He very nearly vomited at the sight of the mould lurking under the paper, and grabbed the large spray bottle of Borax powder he had mixed — when describing his project to the muggle clerk, he had been highly encouraged to purchase Borax in bulk, as it was a natural cleaner and wouldn’t emit chemicals. The dust gave Harry enough of a headache, so he obliged. Now he used this and his large scrubbing brush to go to war, saturating the nastiness and scrubbing the mold away, ripping more of the paper to reveal more of the stuff. As soon as it detached from the wall and went towards the floor, Harry hastily vanished it.   
It took him three hours to get a solid quarter of the wall done, and he was sweating profusely and sneezing repeatedly by the end of it, despite the bubble head charm and series of wind charms he had set up around him. The mould was _vile_. Harry finally relented for the moment, setting the brush to soak in a small tub of the borax solution— no use letting that grow the stuff too— and he pondered what to do next. After the battle of the growth, he was feeling eager to demolish, but acknowledged that he might want to clean a bit more. His eyes went to the windows.  
He grabbed his large sponge — it had a built in glove! — and a bucket of hot water that he dumped gratuitous amounts of soap into. He levitated the bucket to an easy height, went up to the first window, and set to work. The grime was stubborn, but Harry was determined, and after a while he had a solid square foot of glass clean, and already the patch of sun on the floor made the room feel brighter. Harry was so focused on the cleaning that he had failed to notice his floo go off, and was startled by Hermione’s voice.  
“Harry! Your….your kitchen!” She was aghast, and somewhat horrified by the mould on the wall, but even one breath told her the air felt cleaner than it ever had.  
“Hey ‘mione,” Harry waved with his filthy sponge hand, “I was sneezing too much to finish the wall, so I took a break.”  
“You probably have a mould allergy,” Hermione said helpfully, studying his progress; the kitchen was gutted and felt impossibly bigger than before, and the slightly cleaner window was letting in more light, making the room feel more...awake.  
“I was wondering if you had filled out the form again,” Hermione said, cutting right to the point, and Harry sighed.  
“‘Mione-.”  
“No matter what else, you’ve gotten out of here more in the last week than you have in years,” Hermione cut him off, determined not to let him retreat, “and you’re...you’re _doing_ things again.”  
Harry looked out the clean patch of glass for a bit, absently continuing to clean as he thought. Hermione sighed, walking up and leaning on the wall beside him, gingerly after checking for any mould on the surface.  
“Harry,” Hermione said sadly, “I know the first couple tries haven’t been what you wanted. But don’t let that daunt you— you never know if you don’t keep trying.”  
Harry finally looked at her, the worry clear in his eyes, and his resolve. “Fine, I’ll fill out another.”  
Hermione smiled, revealing it from where it was tucked into her jacket, and she placed it on the table, “This is good for you.”  
Whether she was talking about the house or the dating, Harry didn’t ask.


	8. Chapter 8

_Lumber shopping, the ultimate domestic test! Meet at Wood Green Timber, 289-295 High Rd, Wood Green, London N228HU, UK. Look for black hair and a spiral. Say our name for verification!_

Draco had filled out the form with the help of Pansy, praying it would be something he could do on autopilot; but of course he got Potter. What wizard needed a _spiral?_  
He had wanted to wait to fill it out— he wasn’t doing anything but drink until the funeral, but Pansy had put thrown a tantrum, and after a long night of wearing him down, he gave in. Still, didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.  
Draco spotted Potter with his spiral, staring at a large palette near the entrance to the yard; he had a book in his hand, presumably for pricing and wood types, and was looking between the book and the stack repeatedly.  
“ _Amor caecus est_ , Potter,” Draco said, resigned to his fate. Potter started, turning around—  
“Bloody hell, what did you do?” Draco forgot to be indifferent for a moment, because Potter’s face was swollen, his eyes watery, and his nose red. At this, Potter glared, subtly pointing his wand at his face and mumbling a spell, until his face deflated.  
“Turns out I have a mould allergy.” Potter said, turning back to the wood, seemingly resigned to Draco’s presence as well.  
Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust, before peering at the book, “Alder?”  
“Grows north of Bristol,” Potter responded, finding the number he was looking for— the book was marked with long codes and strings of numbers— and he connected it to the particular sheet of wood he was looking at.   
There was an awkward silence, and Draco hated the quiet, “Doing some renovations, then?”  
Inwardly, he cringed at the small talk, even as Potter nodded; suddenly, the man balked, “Who charges ￡35 per square metre for wood?”  
Draco didn’t know what pounds really translated to in wizarding money, “It’s not unfair to charge a lot— high quality wood will last decades if cared for. It’ll cost more to have your cabinets built, extra to have them polished, and then delivery and installation on top of that.”  
Once he finished, he realised that Potter was looking at him, eyebrow raised, and Draco’s cheeks heated a little bit as he realised he had let his interest show. But Potter had his spiral out, and had written down his words without looking, his chicken scratch slanting across the page.  
After another moment of awkwardness, Draco couldn’t help but add, “Alder really is an awful colour for that house.”  
Potter coloured, “I was thinking of getting it stained,” he said quietly, and when Draco glanced at the spiral, he saw the word ‘coffee’ circled with an arrow pointing at Alder. A coffee stain...that’d be nice.  
Draco ended up spending quite a while talking to Potter, finding that his style choices were...less atrocious than he had always thought. He liked simplicity, but not blandness. He also had no idea what he was doing and was just winging it. Draco shuddered to think what was happening to the house, but watching the other man light up with ideas softened Draco a little bit— that is, until the end, when they realised that they just went on a _date._  
Then it got awkward.  
“I believe that would be the end of the evening,” Draco turned to leave, his anxiety spiking as he realised he had just spent an evening with Potter that hadn’t ended in blood.  
Potter grabbed his arm, “Wait— I, er, I could get you coffee?” Potter seemed so earnest, and looking into those eyes….Draco couldn’t do this.  
“No, thank you,” Draco said, shrugging him off and abruptly apparating on the spot, away from Potter and all that he represented.  
Draco landed with a thud in his flat, heart pounding, and he whipped out his wand, “ _accio_ alcohol.”  
He waited.  
Nothing.  
Damn.  
He settled for making tea, taking deep breaths and forcing thoughts of woods, wallpapers, windows, and Potters out of his head. He was so focused on trying not to focus, that he didn’t hear Pansy flew into his flat, and when he heard the creak of the floorboard his wand was out and pointed before he processed who was in his doorway.  
Pansy, for her part, had her hands up, implicating innocence, and didn’t say boo to a goose about it as Draco coloured and dropped his wand, bracing his hands on the counter, the tremors getting worse.  
“I wanted to know how it went, but I see you’re not necessarily calm,” Pansy leaned beside hm, pulling a cup down and placing it beside his, using her wand to pour the water and set the tea to steep. Draco huffed a laugh, the tremors finally tapering off.  
“You could say that.”


	9. Chapter 9

Harry….he didn’t know how he felt about the situation.  
On the one hand, this was _Malfoy_ , but on the other hand….this was Malfoy, snarky know it all who makes funny jokes and kept Harry company for two hours without complaint.  
Also, he had good taste.  
The light blue wallpaper looked good on the freshly cleaned wall— he’d had to go back to the market for more borax, there had been _that_ much mould— and the muggle tablets Hermione had found for allergies were keeping Harry from sneezing every three seconds. He hadn’t realised how bad the house had smelled until that mould had been removed; it smelled loads better, which emphasised the dismal state of the rest of the house. The windows were clean, and the tattered, filthy curtains had been torn down, allowing the London light to stream into the room; it was brighter than it ever had been. The other walls had been stripped of wallpaper, and had the mould cleaned out, and after realising the severity of his allergy, Harry had made a palette in the corner of the kitchen, rather than enter the dangerous, mould filled territory of upstairs.  
The alder cabinets had been delivered, with a coffee stain and both muggle _and_ magical polishes-Harry’d be damned before he got another splinter. The warm shade of the wood looked great with the wallpaper, and where the sun hit it, it shined.  
Harry finished the last of the charms to attach the cabinetry— sticking charm, a reinforcing charm, and a waterproofing charm— when there was a knock on his door.  
He whipped around, wand trained on the door; no one should be able to knock on that door, with the house under fidelius. He approached the door, peeking the peephole, and his hackles went up— Malfoy stood on the other side, seemingly critiquing the door.  
Harry opened the door with the chain attached, wand level with Malfoy’s face, “How’d you find the house.”  
Malfoy snorted, “Fidelius or not, the house appears for those with Black blood, Potter. This _is_ one of my ancestral residences.”  
Fair enough.Harry withdrew, undoing the chain and opening the door wider, “What are you doing here?”  
“I wanted to see the renovations, obviously,” Malfoy said, looking at the floor beneath Harry’s feet, “You obviously haven’t gotten beyond your kitchen.”  
Harry stepped aside, seeing no point in not letting the other man in, and he swept past, scrutinising each piece of the house in a series of mutterings— Harry was aware of the bad condition, he didn’t _need_ that input.  
The sun from the windows preceded the kitchen, and Malfoy whistled low as he entered it. Harry preened inwardly— he’d already spent hours in there.  
“The cabinets turned out nice, and I told you the blue would look good.” Malfoy sounded smug, but praise was praise and Harry wasn’t picky. Malfoy’s eyes went to the wooden floor, the nice condition of the wall highlighting its disrepair.  
“See, now you need to fix this-.”  
He might’ve been planning to stomp his foot to emphasise his point, but the floor— with the house’s dramatic timing— chose that moment to give way.  
Malfoy made a noise akin to a goose as the floor caved in, and Harry reached out and yanked Malfoy to him as the room echoed with the cacophony. However, Malfoy was actually kind of dense, and the unexpected impact sent the two men to the floor of the hallway; Malfoy made a high pitched yelping noise as he landed on top of Harry, knocking the breath out of him.  
The silence that followed the crash was deafening, the air throbbing with the sudden lack of noise. It was after a few moments, when Malfoy cleared his throat, that Harry realised how they had landed.  
Malfoy was cradled into Harry’s chest, with his arms wrapped tight around Malfoy, and his legs had gone wide, so that Malfoy was resting between them. Harry coloured, hastily releasing the blond so that he could stand. Malfoy did, dusting himself off, and Harry sat up to look into the kitchen, and he may or may not have whimpered.  
The floor was….gone. Along with the table, and the piping— the sink had been wrenched down, and the water was now spraying into the cellar, rapidly rotting the wood below. Where his work in progress had been was now a gaping hole. Luckily, the litany of protective charms had saved what he had already done.  
“You’ve been in my house for _Two. Minutes_.” Harry said breathlessly, “and you’ve _destroyed_ my kitchen.” Harry probably would’ve cried had he been alone, looking into the gaping maw of disaster.  
Malfoy was silent for a long moment, before he said, “Well, you were planning on replacing that anyway.”  
Hysteria bubbled up in Harry’s chest, and he snorted, before letting out a little chuckle. Malfoy, amused as well, let out his own little laugh, and soon the two men were cackling over the destruction, Harry having fallen back to the floor as he held his stomach. They laughed so hard they failed to notice the floo, until—   
“Harry, are you alri- Malfoy.”  
The laughter died down immediately, and both men turned to see Hermione, wand in hand, staring at the two, until her eyes slid past into the kitchen, at which point she gasped, “Your _kitchen-!_ ”  
“It was an accident, Granger,” Malfoy said cooly, his face the picture of composure, at which point Harry realised that he was still sitting on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, flushing.  
Hermione glanced between the two of them, seeming unsure what to do, before resolutely lowering her wand, “Right, I’ll come back tomorrow.” Hermione turned on her heel and promptly left again.  
The awkward silence descended again, and Harry cleared his throat, “I’d um— I’d offer to make you a cuppa, but…” He gestured to the destruction.  
Malfoy huffed a laugh, “I suppose a trip to the lumber yard wouldn’t be remiss.” he said quietly, and Harry snorted, warmth pooling in his gut for reasons he didn’t want to think about.  
“‘Spose not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favourite scene in the whole thing, which is part of why it's longer than the others so far.


	10. Chapter 10

_This was such a weird day._  
Draco trailed behind Potter as he spoke with the muggle foreman, sipping the strange muggle drink that Potter ordered in a sarcastic tone, and he listened as they haggled prices and quantities. He didn’t speak much, only to interject, _“Yes, you most definitely need a reinforced layer.”_ Or to correct the proportions of chestnut to honey finish. Other than that, he simply sipped his coffee.  
The sun was starting to set, and Potter looked ready to live in the lumber yard— Draco debated simply apparating home, but years of etiquette training made him feel inclined not to. So he simply stifled a yawn and looked at Potter pointedly. Thankfully the prat wasn’t entirely oblivious, and he caught the signal, flushing as he realised the time.  
“Oh, er...it’s getting late. Could I place that order for the-.”  
“Ignore him, he’s a wanker. If you could take us to your office, I’ll place the orders _properly._ ”  
The foreman looked between the two of them oddly, but obliged, and before long they were sitting in a cramped, somewhat musty office. Draco took the papers, using the stupid muggle quill and swiftly filling out the order forms; at payment, he wrote down his own information without thinking, and Potter squawked from beside him.  
“You are _not_ paying-.”  
“Shush, Potter.” Draco was tired, he was writing with an annoying quill, and he felt no big worry over the blow to his accounts— he had plenty to work with.  
“So, to confirm,” the foreman’s voice was gruff as he scanned the order forms, “You want orders of beech wood in chestnut and honey finishes, with natural beech for a reinforced layer for your floor. Delivery to...11 Grimmauld Lane?” He had a calcul-thing out, punching in numbers as he went.  
Potter made an affirmative noise, the man signed a couple of lines, and then looked up again, “A delivery this large requires a buyer onsight at delivery to sign for it.”  
“No matter,” Draco cut in, “We’re renovating an old family home. Just throw a tarp over it and the neighbours will watch it.”   
The man scribbled something down, “That’ll be an additional fee to pardon my guys from liability.”   
The forms were signed, numbers confirmed, and with a breath of relief they were done.  
That’s when it got tense.  
They left the lumber yard, eyeing each other awkwardly by the light of a muggle lamp post.  
“You didn’t have to um...to do that,” Potter gestured towards the yard, and Draco knew he didn’t, but he coloured anyway.  
“Consider it compensation for the kitchen,” he quirked a smile before he could stop himself, and Potter’s eyes practically glowed in the light as he returned the smile, the former’s face softening almost involuntarily.  
It was hard to tell who had moved first, but Draco had an armful of Potter, whose lips met his in a burst of heat. Draco’s knees quivered, and his hands grabbed Potter’s biceps as heat pooled in his stomach and spread through his veins. Potter, for his part, grabbed Draco’s hips as they kissed hungrily— then the breeze blew, and Draco ripped himself away, staring at Potter askance.  
They had just snogged.  
They just snogged in _public._  
Draco shook his head, heart rate accelerating rapidly as his anxiety soared, “That, that-”  
“Malfoy-.”  
Draco shook his head harder, apparating on the spot, the last thing he saw was Potter’s wide eyes growing shiny as he reached out.  
Draco landed in his flat and vomited, falling to his knees as his muscles spasmed rapidly. His hands shook violently as he grabbed his stock of SOS messages, pressing his pulse to it and praying Pansy was paying attention. He’s so fucked how did he let this happen what the fuck was he thinking—  
Pansy was there, grabbing his hands, and his nails came back bloody, with strands of hair stuck to them— he had been scratching at his scalp in his panic. He looked at her, not really seeing her, eyes flashing as he shook from head to toe.  
She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear her and he didn’t know what to do and he—  
She disappeared, and he cried out, feeling like he was choking, and he clawed at his shirt, tearing the buttons in his haste to get it undone. She came back again, holding his hands and holding something to his mouth. Oh god she’s going to poison him oh no she’s betrayed—  
The calming drought took effect immediately, washing through him like a cool wave of water, and his heart slowed abruptly, leaving him gasping for breath as though he’d just surfaced; in a way, he had.  
Pansy was speaking, “Draco, darling, can you hear me? Are you alright?”  
Draco nodded numbly, still trembling, and she gathered him up, helping him to his feet and depositing him on his couch. She removed the now ruined shirt and vanished it, before conjuring a rag and bowl of warm water, sitting in front of him and dabbing at the scratches on his head and neck— he had ripped through the fabric, going at his neck to free it up. He said nothing, simply closed his eyes and willed the world to swallow him up as she worked, and he felt the soft fabric of a clean flannel settle around his shoulders, his arms lifted obediently, and it was left unbuttoned.  
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”  
Draco shook his head, and she let it be, simply holding him until he drifted to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry slammed into Grimmauld place, the wards snapping up viciously in response to his turmoil— while still repugnant, the blood wards took to him as heir, and they did respond as such. His rage and confusion and utter disappointment spiralled into pain, and he ended up sitting in the doorway to the kitchen, staring dejectedly into the gaping, destroyed remains of his cellar. He ripped a page from his spiral, transfigured it into a blanket, and sat there, lost in his own head; Why had he kissed him? Why had he run away? Was Malfoy just... _toying_ with him? 

The floo flared to life in the living room, and Hermione was suddenly there, wand out and frizzy haired— she was wearing her dressing robe over a nightgown. Godric, she’d been asleep. Harry felt guilt fester in his veins; he had forgotten about his pulse ward.

She came to kneel beside him, gathering him up, “Are you alright?” She was checking him for injury, “Your heart rate got too high, and then you _moved._ I about had a heart attack.” Seeing he was unharmed, her expression softened, and she held a hand to his cheek, wiping away salty tears Harry hadn’t known were falling. “Come on, love. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

She led him to his guest wash room, conjuring a rag and wiping at his face soothingly. Shame still burnt in his gut for waking her, for needing her like a child needs a mother. “I’m sorry, ‘mione.” he mumbled, not looking at her.

“Enough of that. You know I don’t mind,” she set the rag to the side, leaning on the wall opposite him now, “Do you want to talk about him?”

She knew, of course she knew. Harry gave a quivering huff of a laugh, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, glasses abandoned by the sink. “We went to the lumber yard. He..he..” Harry’s chest was catching, and Hermione sighed, moving to hold him as a fresh round of childish tears bubbled up.

“You don’t have to talk about it now, alright? You’re overtired.” He nodded against her shoulder, letting her lead him to his couch, which she fortified with some cushioning and softening charms, summoning his transfigured blanket. 

“Whatever happened, please don’t give up on this, okay?” She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, looking so utterly like a mother that a fresh lance of shame went through Harry. “You’ve gotten out of this house more in the last couple of weeks than you have in years. Whatever happened with him, don’t give up on you,” She kissed his cheek, and then smiled, “But if you tell me to, I’ll send Ron to hex his bollocks off, alright?” When Harry gave a small laugh, she smiled, “Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry drifted into a fitful sleep, and woke sneezing in his dreary, dreary parlour. The smell was horrendous, and a good squint revealed panelling and wallpaper in here as well. Harry sulked for a good thirty seconds, then straightened, resolved. Just because his kitchen— and possibly any chance for human connection — was in tatters, didn’t mean he couldn’t fix _other_ stuff.

He got his borax, his gloves and sponges, and his bucket of water. First, the windows; he needed to see better or the mould might sneak up on him. He ripped the ancient curtains down from the front windows, glad for his bubble head charm as he was peppered with mothballs. The light in the room changed only minutely in response, a slightly lighter shade of grey. Everything felt...dead, drained of colour. 

He huffed, determined, and took his sponge to the first of the large windows, digging his arm into it, until _finally,_ the grime seemed to loosen some. These windows were far more reticent than the kitchen, and it took four buckets of water and a whole bottle of glass cleaner before he managed to get a single pane of glass mostly clear. The effect was startling, albeit not as extreme as he’d like— if anything, it only highlighted the disrepair of the rest of the room.

The floo flared, and Harry turned in surprise to see Ginny emerge from the flames. Her hackles were up, entire body tensed— part of their split had come from her abject refusal to ever step foot in this place again…

She smiled warily, “Hi, Harry.” she looked around, not moving from the hearth, “Ron said you were renovating, I wanted to see for myself.” She nodded to the window, “It’s a little cleaner, I see.”

“The kitchen is a bit farther along, but I got delayed,” Harry admitted. Ginny nodded, but didn’t move, reluctant to truly enter the house. Harry got the feeling this wasn’t why she really came through, “Gin, why are you really here?”

She huffed, “You’ve gotten more observant I see,” she revealed a copy of the Daily Prophet from her bag, “I wanted to know if this was true.” she said, handing it over.

Harry casted a hurried _scourgify_ on his hands before taking the paper, unfolding it to see the headline— and his stomach promptly leapt into his throat. “Fuck.”

__________________________________

# The Boy who Lived to Date Again?

##  _Rita Skeeter_

_Harry Potter, self-imposed exile to the wizarding world and hermit at large, has been spotted recently in muggle London, and most salaciously, spied last night with an unidentified wizard, under a muggle light snogging! Immediately following the saucy moment, both men apparated— a night of heartbreak or triumph? The readers want to know! More pressing, however: WHO WAS THE MYSTERY MAN? Speculation continues on page 12._

 

Draco’s hands shook as he took in the picture beneath the headline. A grainy, faded outline of Potter pressed against him, hands roaming, clutching...but you couldn’t tell it was Draco. The moment looked far more intimate in print than it had felt. 

“Draco, darling, calm down,” Pansy intoned from his table, legs crossed delicately, “You weren’t identified. However, from that picture I do believe you’re going to have one Harry Potter on your tail now, and considering you are _not_ over him—.”

“I am not pining!” Draco shouted, just as a letter appeared from his floo, spat out haphazardly. Both slytherins stopped to stare at it, and Draco picked it up cautiously. The chicken scratch on the outside was immediately familiar. The parchment was pocked with dusty fingerprints.

Draco unrolled it, scanning the scratchy ink quickly;

_Harry Potter lives at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Floo wards are open to you. Burn this parchment._

Almost on autopilot, Draco immediately incendio’d it, still startled by the note’s implications; Potter had let him into the Fidelius on the townhouse. _Willingly._ The idea that he trusted him enough…

The ugly voice in his head, depressingly reminiscent of his father, sneered; _probably doesn’t want me to walk up to the door, attracting all those reporters. He doesn’t want to be seen with me. That’s all._

But that would mean he still wants to see him…

“Draco? Are you going to clue me in?” Pansy said impatiently, having stood to read the parchment, and offended that it had been burnt.

“He let me into the fidelius charm on his home.” Draco mumbled, eyes trailing to his own hearth, the jar of floo powder on his mantel. He could just... _go_ , whenever he pleased. 

That shouldn’t make him feel so giddy.

“Aren’t you the lucky wizard,” Pansy sounded smug, and looked it when Draco turned to her, but it softened into something genuine, “The paper hasn’t scared him off; maybe he’s taken with you.”

The mere prospect of that sent a whirl of anxiety through Draco, but along with...excitement? To temper it, leaving an odd mix of adrenaline in his veins.

“Well?” She got his attention again, and he startled, “Go on, then!”

Draco approached his hearth with more apprehension than necessary, and only got on with it when Pansy sent a stinging hex at his bum.

He stepped into the flames, and in a whirlwind of green, was spat into Grimmauld Place.

Potter was working in his parlour, and a long strip of panelling had been torn away, revealing a truly vile patch of mould, which he was attacking with some sort of muggle potion, his nose red and eyes watering. He had startled and turned to see Draco, and the two stared for a long moment, before he slowly put down his cleaning supplies, jerking his head towards his hall.

Draco followed, only huffing a small laugh as the other man gulped in air as the door shut, “Fucking reeks in there,” he sneezed once, twice, three times, before smiling sheepishly at Draco, “I didn’t think you’d come so soon.”

Draco _would not_ think about the innuendo, “Well, neither did I, if I’m honest.”

They were quiet again, and then Potter was there, crowding Draco into the wall, hands on either side of him, body a hair's breadth away, lips just brushing his. Draco’s heart skyrocketed, only to notice Potter was moving, just...waiting. As though asking.

_Oh._

Draco Malfoy is nothing if not a slightly impulsive, greedy, opportunist. He leant in, and with a jolt in his stomach, he took control.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry was still dazed, a few minutes later, when Malfoy pulled away and withdrew to his floo, disappearing in a whirl of green, leaving Harry so _confused._

So, he kept cleaning.

He put his bubblehead charm back in place, and tore another strip of panelling down, gagging at the sight of, surprise surprise, _more_ mould. He took his borax and his sponge, lengthening the handle to keep himself _far_ from the growth. He detached what he could, finding that once the growth was severed from the wall, he could vanish it with ease, _“Diffindo. Evanesco. Diffindo. Evanesco…”_

The parlour slowly smelled less horrendous, and the shift made Harry wonder how he had never noticed the smell; had Sirius, when he was a dog? Had the scent driven him away? Was that why…

Harry shook his head vehemently. No, he wasn’t going to dwell on the past. He’d done enough of that. He went to the now much cleaner, though still foggy windows, lifting the latch with far more effort than it should’ve needed, and pushed them open; cool london air drifted in, along with the sounds of the street outside. He studied his filthy parlour, with a half stripped wall and threadbare, probably moudy carpet, and sighed. Somewhere out in London, Malfoy was doing whatever he wanted, while Harry...pined. Pined and cleaned. 

He drifted to the entrance of his kitchen— he had cleaned out the rest of the floorboards clinging to the edges, and vanished the wreckage below, until his cellar and floor were well and truly empty. He sat at the threshold, legs dangling over the edge, and studied the work he had already done. The protective charms on the wall and cabinetry had held up very well; the wood still gleamed in the soft evening light. Harry spelled the kitchen windows open too, and the parlour door, to let a current of air run through the house, to wash way the scent of decay. 

He sat there, leaned back on his elbows, lost in thought. In the morning, he woke with a jolt and realised he had fallen asleep there, and stood with a groan as his back popped.

Not long after he stood, the floo flared to life, and Hermione stepped into the hall, “I see you’ve begun to attack your parlour.” She dropped a box of allergy medication onto his lap, and Harry took two of the pills gratefully.

“I saw the paper...how’d he take it?” she sat beside him, looking into the morning light of the kitchen.

“He kissed me again.” Harry blurted, and her eyebrows ascended to her hairline as she waited for him to elaborate. “He, well— I might’ve kissed him, but he definitely kissed back and then—.” Harry hid his face in his hands, embarrassed to be so flustered over a simple kiss.

“I told you this would be a good idea,” if Hermione was bragging, her tone didn’t give it away, for which Harry was grateful. 

The scent of mould tickled his nostrils, and he groaned, “If you’re going to be smug, you get to help with my parlour.” He dragged Hermione back to the decrepit room, where the walls practically leered with their growth.

“You could just vanish the boards all at once.” Hermione brandished her wand, efficiency overriding Harry’s panicked, “Wait—!”

He ducked down with a yelp as the boards launched themselves all over the room, disappearing only after knocking into absolutely everything, and unleashing the most terrifying amount of mould Harry’s ever seen. Hermione had shielded herself and retreated, and when the cacophony died down, they both peeked around— Hermione from the doorway, Harry from behind the couch. The room was...utterly destroyed, would be a good word for it. Harry sneezed three times in quick succession, adding a strengthening bubble-head charm around his face before he had an another allergy attack.

“Hermione, don’t take this the wrong way,” Harry heaved himself to his feet, “But what the _fuck._ ”

Hermione had the grace to look sheepish, “Okay, so maybe I didn’t remember how the house felt about magic used against it.”’

Harry sighed, grabbing his borax, “You get to help me, here. Use _diffindo_ to sever chunks, then vanish it. _Don’t_ point it directly at the wall…”

So they went around, Harry tackling the thicker, flatter pieces of growth with cleaner, while Hermione vanished and trimmed back the dangling or fluffier pieces; they circulated wind charms and refreshed the bubble head charms constantly, because the smell was just heinous.

When they were almost done, Harry’s floo flared to life, and Malfoy’s voice rang out, “Potter?”  
Hermione and Harry looked at each other— she was beside the hearth, and therefore out of sight. With a small wave, she apparated out. Harry went to the flames, “Malfoy?”

“Your delivery is outside— I, er, sent a house elf to check,” Harry could’ve sworn Malfoy’s cheeks pinked at that, despite the flames, “Do you need help installing the floors?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, stamping down on his excitement, “come on through.”

___________________________________

Draco stepped through, startled by the truly awful state of the parlour, “Bloody hell.” he mumbled, and Potter coloured, setting down his cleaner hastily. Despite the wreckage, it did smell better. Potter was also absolutely filthy, in dusty, stained shorts and a tank top, with filth smudged on his shoulders, his glasses, and absolutely petrifying his hair. 

There was an air of uncertainty between them as they heaved the lumber into the house— Grimmauld just _had_ to be in a muggle area— and once the wood buried what was left of the parlour and hall, they stood for a moment, sizing each other up.

“We should probably do the kitchen first,” Potter said after a long moment, and Draco snorted before he could help himself.

“Considering one cannot _enter_ your kitchen, I would have to agree,” he said dryly, smirking at the way Potter ducked his head sheepishly.

“So it’s cherry mahogany combination in the kitchen…” Potter pulled his wand from his shorts, levitating the boards as he counted and sending them to float in the kitchen, while Draco took some of the natural boards behind him, stepping to the kitchen’s threshold to add reinforcement charms, then laying the raw wood down for a base layer, reinforcing each board as it was laid. “Attach the edges to the walls,” Draco said, and Potter stepped up beside him, shoulder just brushing his, as they worked.

Time slowed to deep breathing and mumbled incantations, wand movements and board placement. After what must’ve been ages, the floor was done, with the cherry and mahogany boards laid and stuck properly, and no small amount of magic from Potter reinforcing them. The floor was stunning, contrasting the cooler tones of the wall, and the warm alder cabinets nicely.

“Have you noticed,” Draco huffed, “that your house hasn’t tried to kill us?”

Potter flopped gracelessly to the floor, momentarily spent, “Maybe it gave up.”

Draco snorted, “This house is imbued with magic lifetimes older than either of us. I highly doubt it _gave up._ ” Draco turned back to the kitchen, wand ready, and put a foot down on the new floor, testing, before slowly walking in completely.

It held.

With a sigh of relief, Draco began methodically walking the room, braced to cast a levitation charm, and checking for creeking...nothing. They didn’t muck it up. Draco spun around slowly, admiring the new atmosphere of the room; three of the walls were still that horrid grey but overall, it felt much better, with the light from the windows and the shining wood. But something felt missing…

“Was there a light in here, before?” Draco turned to Potter, who was just getting to his feet, and the other man looked up at the high ceiling.

“Probably, but it didn’t really do much. We mostly just used Lumos.”

“If you want to keep the airy open feel, floating lanterns could work. Permanent levitation charms on some jars with everburning fire, or faeries, though I don’t imagine you’d enjoy that.” Draco was speaking more to himself than Potter, and hadn’t paid attention to the other man as he moved.

Which is why he let out an utterly undignified squeak when Potter was suddenly there, fingers on Draco’s chin as he took his mouth in a kiss. Draco would like to believe he resisted, that he at least attempt to establish some sort of dominance, but he really just _sighed_ into him, arms wrapping around Potter’s shoulders and fingers tangling into sweat dampened hair— they were really quite filthy, which shouldn’t please Draco as much as it did. Potter’s tongue dragged across Draco’s lip, and the blond threw dignity out the window and opened up eagerly, pulling himself flush against Potter’s front.

After what felt like ages, Potter eased away, but didn’t release Draco; his pupils were blown wide, almost obscuring the green of his iris, and he couldn’t seem to find his words. “That was…” Potter was searching his face, for that fear— Draco had run away both times they had kissed, fleeing back to his own flat.

Draco untangled himself from Potter, needing the room to think for a moment, “You have a lot of lumber still. We should get back to work.” When Potter’s face fell, and Draco sighed, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of the prat's mouth, “We really should get back to work.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Amor Caecus Est" means "Love is Blind" in Latin


End file.
